Penance
by InkWorthy
Summary: Kirsty takes in the man who is no longer Elliot Spencer, but is trapped in his body nonetheless. (Pinsty/Elsty, drabble-based AU. Inspired by the ending of Hellraiser: Judgement) (on pause)
1. Chapter 1

_So... I have some Opinions™ about the ending of Judgement, but instead of focusing on those, I'm grabbing the one good idea I got out of it and running with it. This is sort of AU-ish, because that's all I apparently know how to do, but I hope you enjoy it anyway._

 _More coming soon!_

* * *

The digital clock on her microwave read 3:02. As Kirsty looked at the accusing red numbers, a dim glow in a near-unlit kitchen, she tried to rationalize what she was doing awake. She glanced down at the two mugs in her hands, piping hot, and then to her sofa where a salt lamp gave off a soft glow from the coffee table. The light cradled his soft features, saddened and tired, and he just stared at it in silence.

There was no rationalization for this. There was no good reason for any of this.

Kirsty approached the table in silence and set the darker mug on a coaster in front of him. His pitch-black eyes, now a smoky gray-blue, looked towards her with no other movement. He was clutching the comforter she'd wrapped over his shoulders, knuckles white and taut, and he smelled faintly of soap and drugstore shampoo. The shower had washed away the filth that had worked into his remaining wounds and his black leather jacket.

It didn't really help anything.

The man who was and wasn't the Cenobite Prince looked at her for a few seconds that lasted far too long before looking down at the drink. He released the comforter, which rested on a white t-shirt and cotton pants while the clothes she'd found him in tumbled in the wash. He touched the sides of the mug, and for a second flinched back before picking it up again. She wondered, for a brief moment, if his humans hands were more sensitive, if he was unused to the heat. He brought it up to his lips and let out a sigh, his breath casting the steam away from his face, before he took a drink.

She felt a touch voyeuristic watching something so simple that he'd perhaps not experienced since before she was born, so Kirsty turned to her own mug and drank from it. Chamomile and honey warmed her throat and her lungs, and she let herself savor the taste before she heard the faint _clink_ of his mug settling on the coaster again.

He sat there, motionless once more, until Kirsty finished and set her own drink next to is. Finally he turned to her in full, and she looked up at those eyes that were caught in-between two beings, two halves of the same soul, not allowed to be one thing and unable to be the other.

"Thank you." It was a whisper, heavy and sad in its sincerity. Kirsty reached forward, slowly, and brushed her hand against his. He took it and squeezed, his thumb drawing a circle over her skin. It felt so strange without the leather.

"Of course," she answered, not really smiling, not sure if she was upset. Certainly she was hurting for him - for this was not Elliot Spencer, he hadn't been Elliot Spencer for almost a century, but here was Elliot Spencer with the eyes of a fallen Prince. She ached for him, in a way she didn't quite understand; for as much as she feared being as he had been, feared leather and steel and the thought of losing herself, this felt like a loss that was somehow greater.

Having him here, though? Knowing he was safe with her, even if he was in a pain like nothing either of them could ever imagine? She wasn't sure she was saddened by that. It soothed her to see him here, if only because it meant she knew he wasn't alone.

They looked at each other for another long moment. He reached forward, hand shaking a little, and his fingers brushed her cheek. Kirsty leaned into it, then brought her own hand up to do the same. He closed his eyes as her palm cradled the side of his jaw; and it occurred to her, however briefly, that in all of their encounters she had never been able to touch him like this. He closed his eyes and leaned into it, the knot in his brow easing the slightest bit. She pulled him forward with a gentle urge of her hand, and he followed, until their foreheads rested together.

When Kirsty opened her eyes, he was already looking at her. Perhaps this, whatever it was, had stripped his defenses away with the rest of him, because he looked at her with something full of mourning, full of adoration and awe. He didn't need to speak for her to understand, but he leaned a little closer.

"I love you, Kirsty," he said, and Kirsty smiled her small, tired smile at him.

"I love you too." His lip quirked a little at that, but the true change was in his eyes; though the sadness did not leave, she could see a glimmer of hope that had not been there since she'd found him that morning, alone and lost and abandoned to his fate. He brushed his nose against hers and she kissed him, softly, gently. He returned it only for a moment before pulling away and looking back at the salt lamp.

"...I do not know what I am going to do," he said, looking at the light, "or where I will go." She squeezed his hand again, and he looked back at her.

"I don't know what to do either," she said, "but you don't have to go anywhere. You can stay here."

"With you?" It wasn't disbelief - she heard that in the softness, in that note of hope again. It was a request for permission.

"With me," she answered, bringing his hand up to her lips and kissing the knuckles. "We'll figure this out together. Whatever that means." For the first time today he seemed at ease; his shoulders relaxed, and he leaned forward to kiss her cheek before finding her lips again. When they pulled away neither one spoke; he simply lifted his arm to wrap the comforter around her, and she leaned into him, closing her eyes as he did.

The faint glow of the salt lamp framed their tired, peaceful faces.


	2. Chapter 2

_I had another idea._

* * *

He wasn't Elliot, but that was who looked back at him anyway.

Kirsty's coffee table was reflective glass; the first thing he saw when he woke might have been himself, or the accursed body he'd been trapped in, if it hadn't been Kirsty herself. She slept with her head on his shoulder, half-draped in the comforter she'd leant him, hair a tangle of curls pressed up to his shirt. He looked from her to the table to the salt lamp, still glowing; remembering what he'd seen her do before, he leaned forward and pulled the tiny switch towards him. The light went out.

Such a small thing didn't matter, but the slightest bit of control eased him, comforted him. At least, he thought with a biting sourness, some things went the way they were intended.

He slipped the comforter off of himself. The softness of it, of the clothes and the couch and of Kirsty's cheek felt somehow too much and not enough; he longed for the security of his robes, his pins and his belt; but even as he ached he knew this body would not have recognized them, would have responded to the pain and the security with fear and claustrophobia and everything that kept humans from understanding.

 _Will I forget?_ The thought was like ice water in his veins. Would he forget, if he spent too long in this body, what he had been? Would he forget his purpose? He looked back at the face in the glass, the face creased with lines of aging too fast, of trauma, the combed hair that replaced his crown of scars and pins. He knew this face, but it was not him; he had left this man behind, that man had left this face behind to become him.

Who was he, without his Labyrinth? Without his duty, his diligence, his faith?

A soft sigh next to him. He looked; Kirsty was still asleep, the smallest smile on her face. He loved her, he knew that; but love was not an identity, only an emotion, a decision. He chose her a long time ago, before he even knew he could lose everything.

She'd chosen him, as well. That soothed him some; perhaps it was his human sentiment speaking, but the thought that she would choose him even when he was barely anyone, stripped of himself... perhaps that was not so true. It did not take the sting off of his pain, nor make him any happier about being human, but it was something.

 _And what a choice to make,_ he thought. He had been wandering; like a man in a trance, the shock of being stripped of himself and cut off from his own realm had left him lost in his own thoughts, trying to make sense of his fate. He'd wandered, half-dreaming, from the wretched dump he'd been left in to wherever his body deemed was correct in that moment. The only true moments of clarity were late at night, when the horror of his condition and his isolation dragged him out of his dream-state and forced him to stillness with the crushing knowledge that this was his reality, that he was hungry and lost and alone.

He hadn't even tracked down Kirsty; truth be told he'd prayed (to Leviathan, to fate, to _anything_ ) that she would not see him like this, that he would find a way home before finding her again. Perhaps there was poetry in that being how she found him; on his knees with his head bowed, hands over his face, shaking in an alleyway and praying for some sort of merciful guidance.

He hadn't even realized he was praying out loud until he felt a hand on her shoulder, and when he looked up she was there, kneeling in front of him, confusion and disbelief in her eyes.

"What _happened_ to you?" She'd whispered, and perhaps he'd been praying for her all along.

Kirsty had brought him to her home, no conditions, no deals. It was a strange thing, not to be caught in a game with his dearest adversary; but the way she looked at him and his own agony made him acquiescent, rendered him defenseless. He didn't want games. He just wanted to go home, or wherever else she might have led him.

The rest of the day went by in a blur; he let her get him inside, take his clothes (and he must have changed because she left him in a room with spare clothes and he was wearing them when she came back, but had no active recollection of putting them on) and trying to bring him back to reality, to lucidity, out of his shock and into her world. And somehow, despite that he wanted to be away from this world and what he'd become, he'd come back to her. She'd stayed by his side until he slept; and it seemed she had slept beside him, unwilling to leave his side even when he was safe within dreams.

He leaned forward and kissed her forehead, inhaling her soft scent as he did. She had a faint musk he couldn't place, feminine and earthy, imprecise and perfect. She hummed a little and he reached his hand around her head, tilting it forward to kiss her scalp, her hair, savoring the closeness of her. If there was one gift he found in losing himself, this was it; not even he could get in his way in being as close to her as possible. He kissed her again.

Outside, rain started to spatter against the window; first a drizzle that melted into a downpour, the silence growing thick with the pelting of raindrops. That seemed to stir her, because she hummed again and sat up, looking at him with those tired, beautiful brown eyes.

"Good morning," Kirsty whispered, half-dreamy. Despite himself, the Prince smiled at her.

"Perhaps it is," he said, and leaned forward to kiss her lips again.

* * *

 _So I wrote the first one and pretty much immediately needed to follow up on it, because hurt-comfort is the butter to my horror/romance bread. I do think I need to clarify what kind of AU this is - it is, in fact, the 1980's Elliot here, not the one in Judgement. That movie threw the canon out with the bathwater, so if it gets to take good ideas and erase the context that led up to it, then I'm doing the same damn thing. Tbh I don't even consider the Labyrinth to be connected to heaven or hell, but that's a discussion for a future fic._

 _That being said, the concept of a Cenobite in a suit is goddamn hilarious to me and also 100% my aesthetic, so I'm totally stealing the Auditor and sticking him in my own AUs. Sorry Judgement, my world now._

 _ANYWAY, that's all I've got for this lil fic. Chapter 15's coming soon!_

 _\- Inky_


	3. Chapter 3

_I have things to do and I'm almost done with TPatC and the only thing I actually want to do right now is keep adding onto this ficlet I thought I was done with. Apparently I just really, really like the Prince being human and sad in Kirsty's apartment. That being said, I've put a new poll on my profile page, so if you have any input, take a look!_

 _Oh well, let's see how many times I say I'm done before I'm actually done. Be kind, stay spooky, you know the drill._

 _-Inky_

* * *

"They took my name."

The words cut through the comfortable silence like a knife; it surprised Kirsty so much that it actually took her a moment to react.

"What?" She asked, looking up from her side of the board. He had asked for a distraction, and it had somehow turned into a quiet game of draughts, which neither one was entirely losing. He'd sat in relative silence, serene and still when he didn't move a piece or take a drink from his mug, and Kirsty had been alright with that. If he needed to talk, he'd talk.

Apparently that was now.

"They took..." he sighed, closed his eyes. He didn't _quite_ look like Elliot in the daylight; he was too pale, his hair lighter than the picture, the lines in his face slightly too straight to be natural. "We are given names, along with our titles, to keep to ourselves. They are similar to our markings and modifications; we are meant to keep them as our gifts from Leviathan, or the Labyrinth, to be shared only with those we consider as precious as those gifts." He moved to take his mug again, but as he opened his eyes he looked at the coffee with disinterest before setting it back down. "When this... I did not realize it at first. I don't know how long I spent in this state before you found me. It must have been days."

Kirsty reached forward, her fingers brushing the hand on his knee. He looked up at her with those exhausted, beautiful eyes.

"...When I was ripped from the Labyrinth," he said, "my name was taken with my Cenobitic form. I do not remember it." She didn't know what to say to that, so she simply squeezed his hand. He sighed again and took it in his, just holding it with a tenderness she'd have described as uncharacteristic if she didn't know better.

"...What do you remember?" She finally asked, running her thumb over his knuckles. it wasn't quite the same as his circling, but he seemed to recognize it all the same with how his gaze softened a little. He looked out to the window, watching the downpour that hadn't stopped since that morning.

"I remember my titles," he said, "and my chambers, and my tools. I remember the paths of the Labyrinth, and peering over the sides to see how they spiraled down towards the heart of the Labyrinth, guarded by Leviathan's lighting and its own darkness. I remember..." he looked down at the board. "I remember how beautiful it was, the walls, the patterns the maze made, how I knew them as well as my own flesh." He closed his eyes again, and there was a tremor that he was fighting against and losing. "It is... it was my home."

Kirsty let go of his hand to touch his cheek again. He moved towards it, forehead creasing in a frown, and Kirsty swiped her thumb just below his eye.

"I am _not_ crying," he said.

"I know you aren't." Kirsty repeated the motion, slowly and gently, cradling his skin. "But... I've found this helps a little, sometimes." He didn't answer her. "Should I stop?"

"...No," he said after a moment, soft and unsure. He looked at her, and she tried to smile at him, and he tried to smile back. "Thank you, Kirsty, for all that you have done."

"You're welcome," she said, and leaned forward. Her lips brushed his, and she started to prop her other hand on the table so she could lean in further. The pieces scattered under her hand, and she pulled back. They were all over the board. "Shit!"

"It does not matter," he said, placing the pieces back to their starting positions, "we can start from the beginning." Kirsty felt a touch sheepish, but it passed as soon as it came. He was right - she had nowhere to be today, and neither did he. They had nothing but time. She replaced her pieces and let him make the first move.

The silence that came over them was like a warm blanket; comforting and light, easy to shrug off if they needed to. She played a few turns before finally speaking again.

"...What should I call you?"

"I'm sorry?" He had relaxed some, and looked up at her with curiosity - which was, to her, a great leap past despair.

"While you're here. You're not..." She took a breath, pushing back her hair. "If you don't want to be called Elliot, I can get that, but... I don't know. I feel like there should be something. You say my name all the time. More than most people, actually."

"Does it bother you?" She met his eyes, and saw that intrigued little flicker that, despite his human face, was all Cenobite.

"No," she said a little too quickly, then added, "no, I... I like the way you say it." She closed her eyes, knowing that wasn't how she'd meant to say that, and also that her cheeks were probably pink.

"Oh?" There was that hand on her cheek, and she bit her lip a little as she felt him lean closer. "Do you now, Kirsty?"

"Stop it." She turned away from his hand even as the smile crept on her face.

"Stop what, Kirsty?" She heard him stand up and his hand pulled away. She was in trouble.

"I'm not answering that." She sat back in her chair, but felt a hand on hers, and the smile widened. His hand caught her chin and gently guided her face to one side, and she opened her eyes to find him standing over her with that warm, affectionate smile he saved just for her. "You still haven't answered my question."

"What question?" She pulled herself up so her knees were on the chair, and lifted her chin to meet his eye again.

"What should I call you?" He leaned down and his nose brushed against hers, just for a moment, before he kissed her.

"I will need to think on that, Kirsty, before I can give you an answer. I truly do not know." She leaned forward and kissed him again, and he smiled against her lips. "Perhaps your lover?"

"That's not what I meant!" Now she was laughing, and though he didn't join in, he was still smiling as he kissed her forehead. "And that's a little intense to use in public, don't you think?"

"Perhaps." He let go of her chin, and Kirsty watched him return to the sofa before sitting down in her chair properly. "... I will tell you as soon as I can, Kirsty, but I am not sure any name on Earth will ever feel truly mine. Perhaps Elliot would be most convenient, but it is not who I am."

"I understand," she said, her smile softening. "We can just test it for now before trying anything else. I know it's not your name... maybe we can consider it a title on its own."

"That might work." He looked up from the board at her, his face serious again, but his eyes soft. She smiled at him.

"I love you... Elliot." It took a moment, but that little smile appeared on his face as he returned his attention to the board.

"And I love you, Kirsty." He tapped his finger on the table. "And it is your move." She smiled and moved her token, and they soon fell back into the comfortable silence, soothed by the downpour of the afternoon rain.

* * *

 _... didn't expect that to turn into fluff, but I guess that's how it goes sometimes. Ah well. Onwards!_


	4. Chapter 4

The only light in the room leaked in from beneath the closed door and crept up to the foot of the bed, but Kirsty didn't entirely need it. Her eyes had adjusted as much as they could do the dark, and she was wholly focused on the man lying in front of her.

She was supposed to call him Elliot, but even though it was her idea Kirsty couldn't quite make it fit in her head. She said the name easily, and he had managed to get somewhat used to responding to it. Here in the dark though, when there was nobody to pretend to that he just was Elliot and that's all there was to it...

She'd never had a name for him, but he'd never needed one. From the beginning, even when he had frightened her, he had been imprinted into her mind. There was a him-shaped space that she never needed a name to fill - she used the Cenobite Prince or whatever title was needed when trying to explain to somebody else, which was almost never, but to herself he was simply _him_ and that was all she needed. Even his Gash - The Chatterer, Nikoletta, Butterball (his title couldn't really be that) - hadn't had the same effect on her.

"You're not sleeping, Kirsty."

She started a little as she realized he was looking back at her. She couldn't see the blue of his eyes in the dark, but she could tell he was looking at her, only partially asleep himself.

"Neither are you." He reached forward and pushed a strand of hair from her cheek; she closed her eyes and leaned into the touch before opening them again.

"...I can't stop thinking," she said after a moment, glancing at the sheets beneath them. "I don't know what to do." He'd initially offered to stay on the couch, then she had offered to and let him use her bed, and then they'd realized neither one really wanted to sleep on the couch or the bed without the other one. She didn't have a full bed, just an old queen, but she was thankful for the closeness of it, for the way she could just reach forward and find him at an arm's length.

"Neither do I," he said after a moment, and she pulled herself a little closer to him. "I have been trying not to let it disturb me." Elliot was lying on his back, his head turned towards her, and she'd noticed he'd propped his head up with a couple of pillows from the couch alongside the two on the bed. She was content with her two, but he was halfway to sitting upright.

"Are you comfortable like that?" She asked, and he let out a breath that could have been a laugh.

"I am unused to sleeping with such soft, easily-torn materials," he said, and Kirsty bit her lip as the image of his pinned head getting caught in a feather pillow flashed across her mind, "but... yes, I suppose that for the time being I am comfortable. This is not how I used to sleep, but... I suppose it is a manageable middle."

"How did you used to sleep?" She asked, watching Elliot's hand as he started idly playing with her hair. These were such small things - lying next to each other, little touches, talking in the middle of the night - but Kirsty hadn't realized how much she'd ached for them, ached for these experience with _him,_ until she had them. If only the circumstances were happier, this might have been pure bliss.

"Not with such a thick blanket," he said, tugging at the comforter a little. "Nor with such noises as those of the city." He gestured to the balcony window, where the bustle of cars could be heard from floors before. He paused, before looking at Kirsty again. "Nor with a beautiful woman beside me."

Kirsty smiled and pulled herself up so she could kiss him. Elliot's hands settled on her waist; they stayed that way as they kissed, and Kirsty pulled away what felt like far too soon to tap his nose with one finger.

"Flatterer."

"Only because it is true, Kirsty." She settled onto his chest and closed her eyes, which he accepted with a kiss to her forehead. "I am fortunate to be with you."

"Yeah?" She smiled a little. "I'm glad you're here." She felt his hand on her back, slowly slipping down to the curve of her spine, her cotton shirt shifting under his fingers. He settled it there and seemed to relax.

"... I am not happy I am here," he said after a moment, voice quiet, "but I am happy that it somehow led me to you." She hummed a little against his chest.

"Love you."

"I love you, Kirsty." His other hand settled on her back, and Kirsty felt him let out a deep, slow breath. "I shall see you when we wake."

"Yes," she said, "you will." She still didn't know what to do, or what he was going to do while she was at work tomorrow, but he would be there when she woke up. That comfort was enough to let her relax, and soon the sounds of the city faded to the rise and fall of his chest, then nothing at all.

* * *

 _Chapter 4! Probably going to have a little more action next chapter, but I really wanted to get this one down first. Chapter 17's up next!_


	5. Chapter 5

The mortal world was so much more lively and colorful and loud than he remembered. Walking down the street was a spectacle all its own - the lights, the sounds, the chorus of a hundred footsteps not entirely in time as the signal switched from a hand to a walking figure were all strange and familiar to him, somehow at the same time. He walked with the crowd, small and flimsy (plastic) bag in his hand, feeling invisible among the humans who paid him no mind. For some reason he was grateful for that.

He was a proud man, and had reason to be, but even he knew when to admit he needed help. Kirsty had downloaded a map from the internet (two new words he _thought_ he understood) and helped him plan a route for the day, starting at her apartment building and ending at her workplace just as it was time for her to go home.

Now his small purchases of the day sat patiently in a plastic bag at his side as he approached the tall, monotonous building where he knew Kirsty to be. The former Cenobite (who could not truly think of himself as Elliot) stepped in, and after a moment of mental rehearsal, approached the front desk.

"Excuse me," he said - the woman was young and blonde and looked up from her book at him wide-eyed and started - "I'm looking for Ms. Kirsty Cotton's office. I believe she's expecting me." The woman - Carrie was what her nametag said - nodded and reached for a phone on her desk.

"I'll call her," she said, and he nodded as she dialed. The sounds were older and buzzed more than the ones from Kirsty's small, sleek phone. "Hello, Ms. Cotton? There's somebody here, a Mr..." she looked up at him, waiting.

"Elliot Singer," he offered, and she nodded. It was a name they'd come up with together - not quite Spencer, because he wasn't, but close enough that he'd recognize it easily.

"Mr. Singer?" She didn't say anything for a moment, but nodded. "Uh-huh... uh-huh. Okay, thank you." She set the device down and turned to him. "She'll be ready in a minute, in the meantime you can take the elevator up. She's on the fourth floor."

"Thank you," he said, and started for the elevator doors.

"Um, actually," she started, and he stopped to look over his shoulder at her, "You're not... her boyfriend, are you? The one from England?"

 _From England?_ That was technically true, but how would she have known? He nodded nonetheless, a slow one as he wondered what Kirsty had said to her. "I am," he said, and she smiled.

"Well," she said, "Kirsty's mentioned you before, but I never saw a picture or anything. It's nice to meet you." She nodded at him, and he nodded back because that seemed to be appropriate, and she sat back down. Content the exchange was over and slightly baffled, he went to the elevator and was grateful he could at _least_ intuit what to do without help.

The elevator was slow, and it gave him a moment to reflect. The former Prince looked down at himself - dark gray pants (not jeans) and nice shoes, a gray scarf, a black double-breasted coat and matching gloves. It was hardly his robes, but he was thankful to at least be covered in something heavy and dark. It was as close to familiar as he was going to get if he wanted to blend in.

(He _didn't_ want to blend in, he wanted his body and his duty restored, he wanted to serve his gods and his dimension. It did not look like that would happen overnight, though.)

The elevator stopped at the seventh with an overly-cheery _ding!_ He stepped out, politely peering from one side to the other, feeling a touch lost amongst the cubicles and sound of office noises. He couldn't even sense the scandal coming off of anyone; all he felt were curious eyes from passing strangers, and the number of them multiplied as someone approached the corner of his vision. He turned, and allowed his more restrained smile to show as Kirsty reached him.

"Perfect timing," she said, smiling up at him, "did you have any trouble getting here?"

"None at all, Kirsty," he said, and a couple eyebrows raised behind her. He heard a murmur of 'he _is_ English', but paid it no mind. "You were quite helpful. Shall we be on our way?"

"We shall," she said, even as he noticed a couple of her apparent coworkers attempting to flag her attention. She called the elevator back, and he started to tell her about his day's adventures when two more pairs of heels stepped in. He felt a pang of human annoyance, and it looked as if Kirsty did as well, but both women had already started talking. Perhaps _interrogating_ was a better word, he'd think later on.

"So," one of them, a woman with red hair swept up and a white blouse pressed down said, "are you going to introduce us to your friend, Kirsty?" The other woman smiled with her, red lipstick forming a half-moon on her face as she looked from him to Kirsty. Kirsty smiled, an apologetic look directed at him before she spoke,

"Yes, my... boyfriend came in to visit," she said, "Katie, Judith, this is Elliot. Elliot, this is Katie and Judith." Katie was the quiet smiling one Judith the curious interloper. "It's his first time in the city and he wanted to see it with me. Right, Elliot?"

"Indeed," he said, grateful for her quick thinking, "it is quite different from home, I am still learning everything about it. Thankfully Kirsty has been an excellent teacher." She beamed at that, just for a moment, and both women seemed delighted or at least quite entertained by the polite flirtation.

"You never told us he was so _eloquent,_ Kirsty," Katie said, glancing up at him for a moment, "or anything, really."

"I thought she'd made you up to get guys to stop talking to her." Judith laughed even as he arched a brow. "Sometimes it didn't even work!"

"Is that so?" He asked, looking to Kirsty. Before she could answer the same _ding!_ sounded, and the doors parted on the first floor. Judith and Katie walked out first, and he couldn't resist the opportunity to take Kirsty's hand again. Carrie smiled and gave a small wave as they both walked out, and he nodded back, a restrained and practiced gesture.

"So," she asked as they approached the car, "how was your first day as Elliot Singer?"

"Productive," he said, holding up his bag, "and educational. Masquerading as a human is exhausting."

"I think everyone feels that way." Kirsty unlocked the car and slipped in, and he took his seat a moment later. "You want to tell me now or when we get home?"

"Let us wait until we are home. There is much to be discussed."

"Indeed," Kirsty said with a smile, and he gave her a look before she pulled out of the parking lot and onto the open road.


	6. Chapter 6

"You don't have to hold onto that." Was it some trace memory of riding a train in the 1910's, or was he just not used to being in a car? Kirsty wasn't sure, but either way Elliott had a white-knuckle grip on the grab handle even as they sat in bumper-to-bumper traffic. That was rush hour - old news to her, but even with his straight face she could catch the way Elliott's eyes flitted about. He clearly wasn't thrilled by the concept of highways. "I promise we won't fall off."

"You're teasing me, Kirsty." He _sounded_ fine, but he still squeezed the handle before finally letting it go. "I cannot imagine committing to this twice each day for the sake of sitting at a desk."

"Don't you walk across bridges over lightning-charged boundless depths?" She looked back towards the road but heard a small exhale.

"They are not boundless, Kirsty, they lead to the heart and hands of the Labyrinth. It is as essential to us as the surface and those who live in Leviathan's gaze." He said Leviathan with a reverence she hadn't heard in years; not since she'd last been in a church, which was a long, long time ago. Elliott looked out the window, and his blue-gray eyes seemed clouded.

"Hands?" She briefly imagined giant hands like the dark beams of Leviathan - she kept wanting to call it "dark light" even though that was utter nonsense. But what else was it? It was all-consuming and blinding, and she hadn't been able to look at it directly. A sun in its own right. "Is that literal or metaphorical?"

"That depends on how they favor you." That didn't help at all, but now cars were moving. Kirsty stepped on the gas and saw Elliott grab at the handle again. She drove carefully, or as carefully as she could while going 60, and made for an exit as soon as she could. He seemed to let go of a breath he'd been holding for too long.

"Are you sure you're alright?"

"Yes." The response was short and he wasn't looking at her - was it pride? Fear? Was he overwhelmed?

In any case, it was probably time to change the subject.

"You didn't tell me what you bought." There was a moment's pause before he reacted, but he turned to the bag in his lap and pulled out a book.

"Thesis of Penance," he said, "an obscure tome, but I recognized the title. I believe it was written by a scholar of the Lament Configuration and the Labyrinth, and what influence has leaked from them into your world. I hoped to find some answers, or at least a name."

"A name?" Kirsty didn't need to question where she was going; she knew this route the way she knew to breathe. "Are you looking for somebody who can reverse this?"

"Not entirely - this was not power that just one individual can reverse, unless that individual was Leviathan."

"Or the Labyrinth." Tangential late-night conversations were hard to remember, but she'd grasped a few details.

"Correct. While I have lost my connection with Leviathan..." and he stopped there, looking at the book, eyes growing dark again. Kirsty reached a stop sign, and put a hand on his.

"Elliott." He looked at her. "You're looking for somebody."

"...I am hoping to find somebody whose connection might be intact." He turned back to the book. "Opening the Lament Configuration presents too much risk, as I do not know if my Gash will recognize me. I could hardly believe you did."

"It's easier than you think." He gave her a quizzical look, and Kirsty just smiled a bit before driving again. "So you're hoping this book will have some names of Labyrinth-dwellers who are on this side of the door. How do you know any of them are still here?"

"I don't," he said, "but it is a beginning." She pulled into the parking lot behind her apartment and wound her way up to her assigned spot. "I intend to focus on this tonight and tomorrow."

"Sounds like a plan." The car turned off with a faint hum, and she looked back to Elliott. "...do you have something else in the bag?"

"Ah, yes." He pulled out the other dark shape she saw through the thin plastic - an anatomy book. "This is more for-"

"I don't want to know," Kirsty said, "I don't want to think about your weird Cenobite stuff, please don't tell me. Nope." She got out of the car and closed the door behind her, but still heard the faintest sound of bemused laughter.

* * *

 _You can't prove he'd be comfortable in a car, that's all I'm saying. In any case, new Penance chapter, whoo! I'm sort of finding the plot as I write, so this one might be a bit messier. But I hope you're all enjoying it!_

 _-Inky_


End file.
